Progena
by Ephaelion
Summary: Young Micheal, orphan living on the Hive World of Scintilla in the Calixis sector, is enrolled into the prestigious Schola Progenium. This is his story.


Author's notice: this is going to be my first 'serious' attempt at writing a fiction. English is not my native language (Italian is) so please forgive any mistake and/or weird turn of phrase that might escape my notice (it's all Tzeentch's plan to make me look like a fool, honest!). That said, looking forward to any opinion, advice and/or critic. They all are welcome and appreciated.

"In the name of the Emperor, please, stop this folly!"

The old man withdrew carefully, slowly, from the boltgun trained straight at his face.

"I do not know why you are throwing these absurd accusations at me! I am innocent!"

His back hit a library loudly, causing a single leather-bound tome to fall on the carpeted floor, open.

The man collapsed on his rump, his arms raised in a defensive, imploring posture, tears flowing freely down his age-creased face.

"No, no... spare me... please... don't do this..."

The black-clad figure in front of him took a deep breath. "No. There is no forgiveness for what you did. You will pay for your crimes." He took another breath. "And your sins" he added, softly.

A loud bang echoed in the room.

"Grandmother, it hurts!"

"Stop making a fuss, Micheal. I just need to clean the wound, so it won't get infected. Stop squirming already!"

Light came in from the single window, dust motes lazily floating through the rays.

The small boy was sitting on a table. An old woman, her face fixed in a scowl, was cleaning his scrapped knee with an antiseptic.

"How many times did I tell you not to run down those stairs? And yet you never listen! Now, this is what happens when you're not careful!" The woman let a sigh of exasperation out, reaching in front of her for a bandage.

"But, but... Jeremiah stole my ball! I couldn't just let him take it! We have a game in one hour!"

Her work done, the woman grunted with satisfaction, then looked at the child in front of her. She tussled his unkempt brown hair and looked into his eyes, reading only indignation. She finally smiled, "Yes. That couldn't be allowed to stand. That boy is nothing but trouble, I told you. Now run along. But remember, dinner is at seven sharp!"

Micheal jumped down the table, his pain already forgotten, "Yes grandmother Isabel! Seven sharp!" and ran out of the room.

Isabel looked around the room, shook her head in bemusement and tucked a rebel strand of white hair in her ponytail, smiling, then moved to the kitchen counter.

"Micheal, come on! We're going to be late! You know we cannot play when the sun hits the field!"

The day was sweltering, but that was nothing strange for Tarsus' middlehive. The hive surface, a few kilometers above their heads, didn't block out the heat nor the occasional dangerous beam of sunlight. Swerving through the illuminated spots, the small band of children ran towards the dusty field they used to play ball.

In the short span of ten minutes they had reached the place. Their historic rivals, from the nearby neighborhood, were already waiting. "Here come the Stairway Quarter morons. Did you bring the ball?" imperiously asked their leader. Micheal patted it and grinned, "Alright, you Statue District scum. We're standing at 5 wins for each of us. This is going to decide who owns this field. And it's gonna be us!"

Thus was life in Tarsus Hive for the middlehivers in the 41st Millenium. Not rich enough to live on the cooler lowest levels, but also not unlucky as the underhivers (well, overhivers, considering they lived on the surface of the megastructure), middlehivers descended thousands of steps each day from their homes to the manufacturies, earning their food refining the raw materials coming from Ambulon, or climbing up towards the Cathedral of Illumination, Holy see of Calixis' cardinal and one of the most impressive landmarks of the sector, with its cavernous central nave, its spires and the forest of statues surrounding it.

Located in the middle of Scintilla's great desert, Hive Tarsus survived due to the constant influx of pilgrims and, mainly, the sheer stubborness of its residents.

Micheal and his grandmother lived in the Stairway Quarter, thus named because it was crossed by the colossal Way of the Pilgrim, linking the spaceport to the Cathedral. Most of his neighbors worked for the Ecclesiarchy, providing necessities to the pilgrims poor enough to need them and selling fans to those few rich enough to afford them, or even environmental suits to keep the incredible heat of the desert at bay to the truly wealthy.

 _Grandmother always looks so tired when she comes back from work,_ thought Micheal. Isabel worked as a cleaning lady in the upper nobility quarter, but she was getting old. Each and every day she had to descend two thousand steps to her employer's home and, more importantly, climb them back to the small house hugging the side of the Way of the Pilgrim where she and Micheal lived.

Isabel never complained of the situation, but Micheal, almost six years old, could tell the fatigue just kept accumulating. He wanted to help his grandmother, but he couldn't think of anything. Some of his friends made a livelihood as pickpockets but, after briefly considering such a career, he avoided to. His parents, who died when he was just a babe, never would have approved. At least that was what his grandmother told him when he, in his innocence, made her aware of his thoughts.

Micheal didn't remember anything about them. The only link to his past was an half burned picture (his house had burned in the great fires five years past) that showed him, a smiling baby, in his mother's arms. Magdalene Aurelian had been a beautiful woman, light brown hair curling luxuriantly around a pleasant, round face. Her soft, full lips curved into a proud smile as she watched her infant son. Grandmother always lamented the loss of all other pics and vids in the fire, trying to keep his parents' memory alive in the young boy.

His father had been an administrative clerk working in the Cathedral, a respected position. A stern but just man, he would have given anything for his family. His mother was herself a clerk in one of the upper manufactoriums. They had met during a religious function, fell in love and married just before Micheal's birth.

Micheal put down the picture, wondering what his mother's voice would have sounded like and trying to imagine his father. Grandmother always described him as a tall, well groomed man, black haired and black eyed, with a full beard framing a strong mouth.

 _I hope grandmother comes back soon, I'm hungry,_ he thought, before setting out to find food scraps in the small kitchen.

A few days later him and Jeremiah were sitting in the shade of a small shop, lapping juices from the meatballs the owner gave them.

"I'm bored! So bored! If only you guys hadn't lost the game against the Statue District!" whined Jeremiah.

"Hey, that last play was a foul! I'm pretty sure they bought the referee somehow! Not our fault!" answered Micheal.

"Yes, yes, you already said that." grunted Jeremiah. "Tell you what, since we can't play ball anymore without a field... let's go mess with the pilgrims at the great stairway!"

 _Not again_ Micheal groaned inwardly. Jeremiah had a mean streak in him and it seemed every week or so his ideas would bring them into trouble. "Come on Jeremiah! Last month we almost got caught by Fat Joe from the Magistratum when we played pranks on that cleric! You know we shouldn't mess with the pilgrims, the best we can hope for is a beating. The guards on the stairway aren't as slow as Joe!"

Jeremiah grinned, "Always the scaredy cat! At least let's go see them. They are so strange, and there's so many!"

Micheal gave up, "Ok, ok, you win. But no pranks!"

"I promise, no pranks. No pranks at all!" Micheal didn't like the malicious flash in Jeremiah's eyes, but in truth he was as bored as his friend. They pocketed their remaining meatballs and left the shop.

Running in the shaded streets, they soon located the Way of the Pilgrim. Even if he saw it everyday, he always marveled at the great construction. As large as two ball fields were long, thousand, no tens of thousands of multi-colored steps climbed from the gloom of the spaceport below (it was located at ground level, for the convenience of the nobility) to the luminous Cathedral far above their level (from their point of view a distant, blinding crystal flash). The roads all around it were thronged with the Hive's denizens, all hurrying from a place to another, grim expressions of determinations fixed on their faces.

Slowing down (it wouldn't do to crash into a clerk or, Emperor forbid, a priest), they painfully made their way towards the stairway.

Finally arriving at the stairway, they stopped to gape at the huge mass moving in a single direction: upwards.

"Come on, we won't see anything from here!" Jeremiah tugged at Micheal's sleeve and pulled him towards an abandoned building just to their left.

That house was somewhat of a secret hideout for the Stairway Quarter's children. A hole in a window allowed those small enough to crawl to its basement. After that, it was a three story climb to their vantage point, a balcony overlooking a wide sweep of the Way.

Entering the last room, Micheal wrinkled his nose "What's that smell?" he asked.

"Just some fruit some idiot left here" Jeremiah pointed in a corner to some overripe apples. "Come on! Almost there!"

They walked out on the balcony and leaned on the rusty railings, looking down at the mass moving below them.

"Look, look!" Jeremiah excitedly said, pointing at a noble's palanquin carried on the shoulders of burly porters.

"What about them?" Micheal answered, nodding at a group of unkempt men absurdly wrapped in heavy furs, "They must be crazy, in this heat!"

"Soldiers!"

"What's that?" referring to a strange arachnid machine climbing the steps furiously. It was carrying a red-cloaked man, avoiding with its legs the throng of pilgrims.

They kept shouting and pointing at the pilgrims for an hour, then fell silent, still marveling at the sight.

After a few minutes of silence, Micheal turned towards Jeremiah, "Should we head back?" He stopped, perplexed. Jeremiah was not on the balcony.

"Jeremiah? Where are you?" Micheal stepped inside the room. Waiting a few second to get his eyesight used to the gloom, he scanned the dusty locale. No Jeremiah.

Micheal went back to the balcony, looking around, hoping to catch sight of his friend.

 _There!_ Micheal thought. Jeremiah was leaning out of a second story window. _What is he doing?_ He watched as the other boy pulled back his arm, as if in a throwing motion. _The apples! That stupid, stupid..._ as Jeremiah threw one of the rotten fruits into the throng. He watched in fascination as the missile flew through the air, following its trajectory until it landed with a disgusting splat on an head. An helmeted head.

The soldier suddenly turned yelling a surprised curse, and saw Micheal. He pointed and yelled: "You! Stay right there! I'm coming for you!"

Micheal started and looked at the window Jeremiah threw from. It was empty, he saw to his horror. He shook his head, muttering, "It wasn't me" but the soldier wasn't likely to believe him and he was already elbowing his way towards the building.

He turned around and ran.

Panting heavily, Micheal leaned on a wall. He stopped hearing the furious yells of the pursuing soldier three streets back, but he was still scared. _When I catch Jeremiah, he's dead_ he thought, furious. _It's so like him. Do something stupid, then dump the blame on others. I hate him._

His breath somewhat recovered, he looked around. He wasn't far from home, it would take little over ten minutes to get there. He resolved to keep silent about the incident with his grandmother. He didn't need another sermon about Jeremiah, even if she was right.

Before he could move, he felt a hand grab his arm. He yelled, whirling about, "It wasn't me, I swear! It was Jerem..." he stopped, shocked silent by what he saw.

It wasn't the soldier who had grabbed him. In front of him stood a pale man, garbed in what could only be described as dirty rags, a rickety staff in his hand, an unkempt beard masking the lower half of his face.

The man panted, "Please, young boy... help me. Please".

Micheal pulled his arm back sharply and, to his surprise, managed to get free. Not only that, the man fell on his knees, unbalanced by the motion.

Micheal ran a few steps, then stopped and looked back at the pilgrim, at least that was what he looked like.

Now that he looked at him more carefully, the man wasn't in good shape. His rags didn't hide an emaciated frame. He tried to stand, but even leaning on his staff, he couldn't. Suddenly feeling ashamed for his reaction, Micheal drew nearer.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any money to give you, sir." he said.

"Please..." the man wheezed.

Micheal suddenly remembered the leftover meatballs. He rummaged in his pockets and produced two of them. He held them towards the man.

The pilgrim looked and then, suddenly, started crying. He grabbed the meatballs and stuffed his mouth with them. Once done chewing, he looked at Micheal, "Thank you, boy. You saved my life. Saint Drusus bless you." He stood up, leaning heavily on his staff, and made his way back towards the Way.

Micheal just stood there, dumbfounded.

Isabel could tell something was up with Micheal. The boy had been unusually silent through the whole dinner. "What's up, Micheal?" she finally asked.

He didn't answer immediately. Then, after a long stretch of silence, he told her what happened earlier. Isabel listened intently then, when he was finished, stood up and reached for him, hugging him tightly. "I'm so proud of you. You're a kind boy. But be careful, many pilgrims can be dangerous. Promise me."

Micheal nodded, then smiled and his grandmother. _He looks so much like his mother_ she thought.

She let him go, then, still smiling kindly, she cuffed him on his head. Micheal started, surprised, "What was that for?"

Isabel, now frowning, answered: "That was for hanging out again with Jeremiah! How many times do I have to tell you he's up to no good, young one? Now back to your room, go to sleep. We'll talk more about this tomorrow"

Micheal looked almost comically offended. Isabel bit her lips, trying hard not to laugh.

 _Finally, it's my birthday!_ Micheal thought excitedly. He was turning six today and his grandmother had promised she would bring home a present. Micheal was hoping for a new ball, after Jeremiah's latest prank had lost him the previous. His relationship with his friend had cooled somewhat after the incident at the stairway, but he still got caught in some of his ideas.

Running home from a game (the Stairway District had finally won back the field's ownership with an epic sequence of victories), he entered his house yelling "Grandmother, I'm back!"

"In the kitchen Micheal, come quickly, your dinner is ready" the woman answered.

Micheal entered the small room and gaped. The table was sporting a birthday cake! He never had one of those!

"Happy birthday, dearie." Isabel smiled. Then slapped his hand away, "That's for later. Eat your broth first".

Micheal wolfed down the meal, then looked at his grandmother. "Can I eat the cake now?"

Isabel chuckled, then shook her head, "First, the candles."

She produced six small candles from the counter and lit them. "Now, this is an old tradition. You have to blow all the candles at the same time, then make a wish. Just think about what you most desire in the world, but don't say it!"

Micheal considered a moment, then blew on the candles, getting them all. _A new ball!_ He thought.

Isabel clapped, then smiled, "Now, about your present..."

"Is it a new ball?" Micheal asked excitedly.

Isabel shook her head, "No, something much better". She rummaged into her pocket and brought out a small silver pendant on a chain. She fastened it around Micheal's neck.

Micheal glanced down, "What is it, grandmother?"

"That is your mother's pendant. I kept it for safekeeping. You weren't big enough to be trusted with it. Now I think you deserve it."

Micheal took the pendant and examined it. It represented a book. Micheal looked at his grandmother dubiously.

"That represents the holy word of Saint Drusus, my dear Micheal. It will protect you and help you during your life. Trust me on this."

"Thank you, grandmother" Micheal said dutifully. Then, unable to contain himself, he asked, "Can I eat the cake now?" Isabel smiled, "Yes, you can."

It was as delicious as he imagined.

A few days later Micheal was eating breakfast with his grandmother when suddenly a loud knock came from the front door.

Isabel stood up and went to the entryway.

In front of it stood two soldiers and a bored looking man wearing grey Administratum robes. "Is this the Aurelian household?" He asked, checking from a small datapad.

"Yes sir, how can we help you?"

The clerk answered by rote, "Rejoice. The Emperor does not forget His sons. Young..." he stopped, scanning down a list, "Young Micheal has been chosen to be enrolled in the Schola Progenium of Scintilla. He will leave with us presently. He won't need to take anything with him, the Imperium will provide for his well being and necessities from now on."

Isabel paled, then looked down at Micheal, who had joined them. "This is so sudden... can it wait a few days so I can say my proper goodbyes?"

The clerk sighed, "Presently, madam. Please don't make this unpleasant" The two soldiers suddenly stood straighter, looking menacing.

Micheal looked up at his grandmother, noticing with alarm a single tear coming from her eyes, "Grandmother? What is going on?"

Isabel knelt down, hugging Micheal tightly, "You have to leave with these man, Micheal. You will go to a better place, meet new friends. Know that I love you and will always be there for you."

She pushed him gently towards the men.

Micheal resisted, "But, but grandmother. I don't want to. I want to stay with you!"

Isabel hugged him again, then let him go. She suddenly started, "Hold on, just a minute. There is an item I have to give my grandson." She hurried back towards the kitchen.

The clerk grunted impatiently, then answered to her back, "Be quick madam, we don't have much time." Then muttered under his breath, "I have to meet a quota, the preceptors will have my hide if I don't do it"

Isabel was soon back, handing Micheal a folded paper, "Here. Take this with you, it's your mother's picture. I don't need it anymore, it's yours."

Micheal took the half-burned picture, dumbfounded.

The clerk cleared his throat impatiently, grabbing Micheal's shoulders, "Come on, young man. Say your goodbyes, we need to go."

Micheal let himself be dragged away. Isabel smiled and waved at him, before turning back inside. The last image Micheal had of his kind, strong grandmother was her back. Her shoulders were jumping up and down and her head was leaning forward, as if she was laughing.


End file.
